


Tramadol Nights

by TwixforBats



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench arguing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwixforBats/pseuds/TwixforBats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had completed the job successfully, but Mr. Numbers was still angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Evening

It's not the fact that he's not talking to him that's bothering Wrench: Numbers is driving, after all, and he tends to prefer not to take his hands off the wheel when he does that. Besides, their friendship is full of long silences, for obvious reasons, so that's not a problem.  
It's the palpable anger that emanates from him that makes Wrench somewhat wary.

Numbers is the kind of person who wants everything in his job to be perfect, and if anything runs less than smoothly then, at the end of it, he will be in a sullen mood no matter how positive the outcome. Wrench can't understand why: struggles happen, people are unpredictable, and if the target is dead at the end then that's all that matters. Not for Numbers. He wants to do the job and go home in the same condition he was when he started it, not one cut more, not one less.  
So when the would-be victim had sprinted out of a dark room, slashing his knife in the direction of Numbers' face, he knew that it would have ended with them in a remote Target in the drugs section – because they had a first aid kit in the trunk of their car but they were always missing some little thing – arguing over something pointless.  
He had been right, of course: three hours after the hit there they were, Numbers walking fast in front of him and Wrench tapping his back, trying to get his attention, to understand why he couldn't just enjoy the fact that they were going to get their money, why he was refusing to speak to him, and maybe he wasn't really tapping his back as much as pushing him but Numbers was ignoring him and it was just so unfair.  
Numbers had stopped, eventually, but still pointedly refused to acknowledge him in favor of checking every single medicine on the shelf for no apparent reason other than to put them back more violently.

 _Will you just_ he started, but Numbers had ignored him, almost smashing one of the medicines (a little bottle of something) against the others instead.

 _You are being_ and he stopped again because Numbers had turned to another shelf and he was not looking at him.

 _This is_ he tried again, walking next to Numbers, but he had turned his face the other way the moment Wrench had started signing and the next thing he knew was that he had slammed his hand against the shelf, feeling it rattle under his palm.

Numbers had looked at him, finally, or rather glared at him, his eyes made more dark by the contrast with the white gauze pressed to his forehead: his lips had moved, but he didn't bother to read them. It was some kind of insult, probably, it didn't matter- it was his turn to ignore him.

_What is your problem now?_

_You were supposed to buy painkillers._

Wrench had glared at him. _Is that it? I said I was sorry. Why are you so angry, anyway? I'm the one who needs them, you're fine._

Numbers had muttered something under his breath that wasn't clear enough for Wrench to understand, and he knew he hadn't done it on purpose – whenever he ended up speaking to him he always made a point to speak as clearly as possible, whatever the circumstances – but it still annoyed him to no end.

He tugged Numbers coat, forcing him to face him again. _What did you just say?_

_I could have needed them. You are irresponsible._

He had even spelled out 'irresponsible', either to truly drive the point home or because, in his rage, he had forgotten the sign for it.

The argument hadn't really continued, or, if it had, Wrench remembered little of it: definitely the painkiller's fault, that one. Numbers had unceremoniously thrust a bottle of Tramadol into his hands and then had walked to the parking lot before he could ask anything, and two pills later he was in the car, his mind slowly drifting away.

The cars is always so full of so many vibrations that would get stronger the faster they drove. He imagines that every single one of those were, at least in part, connected to some kind of noise: he thinks it must be an unholy mess, and it surprises him that Numbers, as angry as he is, can stand it. For Wrench, it is oddly calming. It's a little constant thing that worms its way inside his brain, creating a wall between his mind and the outside world.  
Or maybe that's still the painkillers: he doesn't really care.

Numbers had stumbled back- before, when their target had attacked him, he had stumbled back. He had fallen to the floor and Wrench had managed to punch the knife out of the man's hand, after he had managed to cut his arm. Nothing serious- even if quite long, it's little more than a scratch. Still, it had surprised him.  
He doesn't remember much of the struggle- he doesn't know _why_ he's trying to remember the struggle. Details are hazy, and it only gets worse if he tries to focus on it. He knows he ended up with a cracked rib, bruised kidney and a hurt knee he can now bend somewhat.  
The painkiller is working: he can't even feel his hand throb, after the way he had slammed it against that shelf in Target.

It could have been Numbers in his place.  
He thinks about it: thinks about how excruciating it had been to walk back to the car, of the deep breaths he had taken to ease the pain all the way to the supermarket, because he had forgotten to buy more Tramadol the last time they had been on a job. He thinks of Numbers having to go through that.

The car stops: they're at Wendy's, now. Considering how much Numbers hates it, they must be in a truly desolate area for him to consider stopping there. Wrench loves it, of course: you can't screw up a fat hamburger and a fat milkshake.  
They walk in and Numbers is polite enough to order for him: he doesn't try to start a conversation, though. Not that Wrench is sure he could keep up with it.

He feels tired. He should be, since it was a hard day of work, but Numbers' bad mood had not helped. He keeps drifting away- he remembers Numbers scrubbing the blood away from his face, sticking the gauze to the cut on his forehead. It's not a serious injury, but head wounds are generally a mess and bleed all over everything. If Wrench looks at the gauze now, he can see a dark spot in the middle of it.  
Wrench feels his stomach clench: he's pretty sure that's the painkillers.

It could have been Numbers in his place.  
It makes him sick to think about that- of the pain he could have put him through, of the way it would have gone. Wrench, with blood blinding one of his eyes, having to watch as the target kicked Numbers while he was down.

Wrench remembers to breathe only when he realizes that Numbers is giving him an odd look.

_I love you._

His fists are already crossed above his heart when he realizes what he's doing, but still he doesn't stop: besides, it'd be too late.

Numbers is frowning, his eyes darkened by that sparkle of anger that's been harboring for hours.  
 _What is that sign?_ When Wrench hesitates to answer, he decides to repeat it back to him, for clarification.

He looks at Numbers and he sees him, with the blood dripping down his face as his hands twist the garrote wire around the targets neck, tighter and tighter, with that same furious expression he's now using to sign love back to him.  
It makes Wrench sick.

_Nothing. Doesn't matter._

Numbers slams his hands on the table, and Wrench can feel the vibrations on his end: they hit him with the strength of a punch.

 _It mattered enough for you to say,_ he signs, his hands cutting through the air, _but it doesn't matter enough for me to know? Is that how it is?_

Wrench right fist goes to his heart, circling it a couple of times.

_What? Why? What does it mean?_

The server brings them their burgers: Wrench shrugs, staring down at his food. He's sure he can feel Numbers speak, on the other end of the table, but all he can actually see are his onion rings, and that's what actually matters.


	2. Night

Tramadol is not supposed to be the go-to drug in case of pain, even if it is quite severe. There are many technical reasons for that that Wrench has read about – a tiny bit of medical and legal knowledge does help in their line of work – but has not found interesting enough to remember, or that he knows but he can't focus on while the motel room keeps slipping in and out of existence around him: the gist of it is that most of the time taking Tramadol is like trying to kill a mouse with a rocket launcher and, therefore, not worth the blank prescription Fargo's leading doctor has gifted them with.  
It is, however, the one painkiller they end up buying with strange regularity, even though it is rarely quite what they need. They both know that broken or cracked ribs, torn muscles, all of those things require an anti-inflammatory drug rather than an opiate for actual medical reasons that they've summed up as 'healing properly'. Still, one time, when Wrench had asked him why he was buying it, Numbers had noted that 'healing properly' is for when they're not supposed to spend days on the road cramped up in a car, and that if he had to drive through Kansas with a bad back then he wasn't going to risk feeling any pain during the trip.  
Wrench would generally tell himself that that's the reason why he buys it, when he buys it. Sometimes, though, when his eyelids grow heavy and his mind unravels before him like a quiet, still lake, that question elicits a different response: there is no certain answer, but there are images, blurred at the edges and with little context.

He remembers one of their earlier jobs. The details are hazy: some guy who had managed to climb the social ladder but knew things about Fargo. Or maybe had taken something from Fargo? It didn’t matter.  
He remembers the ballroom, and Numbers telling him to stop glowering, that it would attract someone's attention. Wrench had been annoyed: _why can't we just run him over?_ Numbers had told him why- he doesn't remember why. He remembers Numbers staring at their future victim with steely eyes, and he can remember being almost able to read his thoughts in the lines around his mouth: why did this have to be so needlessly complicated, why can't we just shoot him in the back of the head and dump his body somewhere. They're not for complicated jobs, for infiltrations and suits and dry martinis: they're for getting the job done and going home. Waiting around unnerved both of them, and after three hours of staring at their target while he got increasingly drunker and drunker it was only their professionalism that kept them from shooting indiscriminately into the crowd.  
Then, the idea.  
He can't remember who thought about it first: he sees his hands sign that it sure would be sad if it turned out that the man's whisky were spiked, and he feels himself frowning as Numbers' face lights up when his hand goes to his pocket. Wrench can't put those two memories in order: if he tries to focus on them, he can feel them slip away until he can't be sure if they're real or if he just made them up. He lets them go and a bunch of images rush past him: Numbers mixing the Tramadol pills in the glass of whisky, Numbers laying his handkerchief over his left arm to pass as a waiter, Numbers switching the empty glass in the target's hand with the spiked one. The anger as time passed and nothing happened. The grin on his lips when, finally, something happened.

In hindsight, it had been ugly. They had seen worse things, but projectile vomit always ranks high on the list of things one doesn't want to see. Still, it was fascinating: hours and hours of waiting around, all leading to five minutes of blissful horror. There had been the tearing apart of other guests' clothes as the target fell to the ground, there had been slaps and screams, there had been falling in compromising positions and, of course, vomit: there had been everything and more, and Wrench had grinned, not knowing where the schadenfreude ended and the catharsis began.  
In the end, when the target was laying still in a pool of his own vomit and who knew what else, they had looked at each other, Numbers’ face carefully blank.  
Wrench had moved his hands with calculated flourish, the serene look on his face disturbed only when the language needed it: _I call that The Aristocrats._

There is no real reason why he buys that specific medicine. Bottles of it had gone past the due date unopened and had been promptly chucked away, months had gone by without it being in their first aid kit: and yet, of all the unnecessarily strong painkillers with way too many side effects and risks that there were available, Wrench would still always end up taking that one. There is no reason.

Sometimes, he shakes a bottle of Tramadol, feeling the pills inside rattle under his palm: his mind takes that memory away from him and changes it to Numbers, the way his shoulders had shaken, his face hanging low to hide his smile from the still just confused crowd around them.  
Wrench had seen him laughing before, obviously, but that's the smile he remembers when his chest tightens so much it almost hurts: Numbers' face melting, warmth showing through for the briefest time in the worst possible moment, and him trying to hide it as Wrench's lungs plunge into ice and there is a hand on his chest.

Wrench blinks and Numbers is there, switching the gel pack on his chest with one that's actually cold with a swift movement: he's back in the motel now, room only slightly tilting at the edges. Numbers is on the phone but he's turned away from him: he opens the mini-fridge with a small kick and then tosses the warm gel pack in, leaning only slightly forwards when he does that.  
He's on the phone: he's turned around now, but his face is still mostly on one side, making it almost impossible to read his lips- Wrench is pretty sure one of the words he's just said is either 'vacation' or 'location'. Or at the very least, he doesn't remember any 'cremation'.

Numbers stirs, walking to the coat on the other side of the room, giving him a clear view of his lips for a couple of seconds: 'there was the library inauguration, the one last week' and then his back is turned and his free hand is rummaging in the coat pockets, taking the bottle of Tramadol out.  
'No survivors' he says, turning around, then pops a pill, shutting his eyes in a disgusted grimace. Wrench feels himself frown, actual confusion eluding him in the numb daze he's currently trapped in: why does he need a painkiller? He had managed to get out of the struggle only with a cut on his forehead. Didn't he? The memories are hazy- Numbers falls down, Numbers twists the garrote, Numbers face is covered in blood.  
Wrench feels his vocal chords tremble in his throat: the thought that that's a noise, that Numbers might have heard it, disgusts him.

'The point is that these have been very busy months,' Numbers continues, apparently not having heard him- is that even possible? Wrench finds it more plausible to think that he's ignoring him. 'So when I say that I would like to ask for a couple of weeks off, I mean we're getting a couple of weeks off.'

Are they? Wrench had supposed he could just get the easier jobs for a while: scaring people away, setting shops on fire, that kind of stuff. After all, it's not like they have normal working hours: for all they know, they might not be called for the next three months. When had they discussed that?

'You always have to be so difficult. Just tell Fargo that if they need anything done then they should call someone else. I am getting that time off one way or another, so do this one thing for me now.'

Numbers tips his head back, resting it against the wall, eyes still closed: he takes slow, deep breaths, his face blank if not for a slight wrinkle on his forehead, his free hand a fist that keeps clenching and unclenching to his side. He's- tired, Wrench guesses. He does look tired.

'Good. Listen, do you know what,' and now he walks to the desk, his face hidden from Wrench's view. Something tells him that he should feel worried- for what? He doesn't know. There's a part of him that is trying to make him panic, but it's far too distant for him to take it seriously. Why should he panic?  
Numbers turns around mid-sentence: 'above the heart.'

His stomach clenches in a way that should be painful: it's not. It probably has something to do with the painkillers.  
Numbers sighs, the frown deepening.

'You work with him sometimes, I would have thought that's a good reason to learn his language.'

The person must have said something Numbers doesn't like, because instead of listening to them he tightens his hold on the phone and puts it against his forehead, the corner of it massaging a point above his right eyebrow: his whole body is in tension, everything about him screaming his frustration.  
Then he moves the phone back to his ear. 'Yes. Bye.'

He tosses the cell phone on the desk and sighs, his lips moving but too unclear too read: then he looks up and Wrench can almost feel his lungs collapse when Numbers' eyes lock with his.

_Fargo called. We get the next couple of weeks off._

Wrench hasn't asked for those weeks off. He doesn't really care about it, much as he doesn't care for many other things at this moment, but if he has to think about it then that's all he can come up with. He hasn't asked for it: they haven't discussed it. _I'm not a child._

Numbers frowns, his eyes suddenly cold: in other circumstances he would have probably screamed something. He certainly had done so in the past.  
This evening he drops it, his expression melting into that tired something Wrench can't decipher right now.

_I know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, this was supposed to be a one-shot, then you asked for it to continue and there was the Tramadol question and, well, here I am. Thank you. You know, for, uh, liking this and taking your time to comment. I'm sorry I didn't answer to anything. Not quite sure what I should say. Erm. Thank you! Sorry. Thank you! ^^"


	3. Morning

Tramadol makes it hard sometimes to understand where sleep ends and reality begins: that is probably one of the many things that don't work in the drugs favor.  
Wrench can't honestly say if he's had a good night rest or woke up a million times: he remembers things, confused and hazy as everything else in this exact moment. He's pretty sure there was a spider in the corner of the room, he can remember the thread shining under the moonbeams – it's not there anymore, neither the spider nor the web. He thinks he saw the ceiling slip to the right and something move in the corner of his eye, but the memory melts at the end, either because the dream changed or because he had gone back to sleep. There was Numbers laughing, or maybe it was a spider, and the bed was trembling and it rattled under his palm.

The sun is shining when Wrench opens his eyes, again, or possibly for the first time, or maybe he doesn't and he's still dreaming- the sun is shining on the white ceiling, bright and annoying. He can feel, behind the veil that Tramadol has draped around his mind, something in his head thumping, a promise of a terrible headache the moment the effects of the painkiller wear off.  
His head falls on one side, his brain swirling weightless in his skull as the whole room jumps around him: he feels like he's slipping, nausea clutching his stomach in a vicious grip, and the only thing that he can hang on to is Numbers.  
Wrench's eyes fall on Numbers and the room turns into a void all around him, his heart plunging into the abyss as he sees his partner's still face, the skin that's turning ashen and the glassy, distant look in his eyes: then he's back in the room and Numbers is looking at him, frowning.

It takes Wrench some minutes to realize that the frowning is sign for _what_.

_You what._

Numbers frowns again, possibly another what, then slightly shakes his head. _Go eat_.

_What about you?_

Numbers does something that's supposed to be a shrug and Wrench could swear that that pallor is back, that Numbers' eyes are as glassy and lost as he's sure they were a couple of moments ago, but then they're outside, stumbling towards their car, and he's not sure he's ever been in a bed before.

There's something odd in the way Numbers moves, Wrench thinks- he looks stiff, if that's the right word for it. He stretches his hands, clenching and unclenching them, thin black lines somehow managing to emerge from the purple spots that are his palms: it makes sense, what with Numbers having garrotted someone the day before, but it still looks wrong to Wrench. Part of him expects to see blood, but that's not right- that had been the knife, years before, when Numbers had ended up stabbing the target and the blade had cut through the flesh of his hands. Not bad enough to require stitches, bad enough to make him loathe any kind of weapon that could give offensive wounds.  
And yet, Wrench thinks, his hands are badly bruised, and his face had been covered in blood, and he's looking at him from behind the wheel now. _What are you doing? Sit down and let's go._

It seems unfair to have Numbers drive for hours with his hands so badly damaged- maybe he should drive. Maybe Wrench should take the wheel and stop at a waffle house: Numbers would appreciate the hashbrowns.  
But, the world swiftly reminds him by tilting to the left, he's in no condition to drive, and so he leans his head against the cold window and stares at the desert highway, at the world outside that looks so much the same it's almost like they're not moving, at the sky that's the same sickly pale gray as Numbers when he's not covered in blood.

The sky turns blue under Wrench's eyes and a younger Numbers stands in front of him with a perfectly blank face apart from a thin line of worry on his forehead: he signs something Wrench does not remember, so taken he is at staring at his friend's face.

He taps Numbers' shoulder, feeling himself grin slightly. _Emoting is part of sign language._

Numbers freezes on the spot, looking for all intents and purposes like a cat that has turned a corner expecting fish and found instead a bulldog. _What?_

_You must use your face when you sign. Have you never looked at me when I talk to you?_

The frozen look doesn't leave Numbers' face as he slurs a couple of signs that don't go anywhere.

_It's ASL grammar. If you want to speak correctly, you have to move your face._

The color drains from Numbers face as he sputters something Wrench can't read, his hands moving to form a sign and then falling down again before it can become clear, and his expression has somehow managed to turn into that associated with what and a sharp pain radiates in his chest, cutting his breath short as he slams back in his seat and Numbers jumps out of the car, leaving him alone to gasp for air.

To its credit, the Tramadol works wonders: it doesn't take long before the pain turns into a dull thumping behind that weird blanket that's smothering his thoughts. It takes longer for him to actually trust himself and try and breathe normally, though, but at least he can breathe. If the few notions of medicine he knows are correct, that should mean he hasn't broken any ribs, which is some sort of minor miracle, no doubt, but still not enough to make him or his hands (already mid-sign) stop shaking.

_What was that?_

He doesn't receive any answer, obviously: even if Numbers were looking at him, Wrench's hands are shaking too much for his signs to make any sense to anyone other than himself.

_What was that?_

Wrench knows he's just slammed his hands down only because he can feel them tingle, the vague pain washing away thanks to the painkiller in him: still, Numbers is staring at him now, so it was almost worth it.  
Almost because that paleness is back, as are the glassy eyes, and the only way Wrench knows he's not dreaming right now is because he can feel the pain in his hands and even that reassurance is quickly leaving him now.

_'I can't drive. My tailbone hurts. I need to lay down.'_

Numbers mouths those words carefully, looking somewhat terse as Wrench stares at him. Wrench would like to tell him to shut up, to remind him that all he got from that job was a cut and some slightly bruised hands, but then he remembers Numbers falling down, pushed over by the target, and he remembers the grimace of pain and how long it took him to recover and help him with the target.  
It would fit, that's for certain, and the only reason why Wrench doesn't slam his hand against the window is that he doesn't feel like picking shards of glass out of his flesh.

_And you couldn't say something? Were you tired of having to bend over to look under the table and so decided that the obvious solution was to get rid of your spine?_

Numbers' shoulders shake and Wrench can't understand if it's because of a chuckle or half a sob. _'Can't drive anymore. We need to go back to the motel.'_

_How? I can't drive, I'm on Tramadol._

The bemused expression Numbers is giving him is enough to carry over the intended message: _in two seconds I'll be too._

For a second, just one, Wrench regrets not being able to hear.  
He feels his throat hitch, basically begging to be used: he _needs_ to scream. What, he doesn't know, but he knows that he needs to scream- only, of course, it wouldn't work as well as he thinks it would because he cannot hear himself, which is a shame because he really, _really_ wants to scream.  
So, for a second, there is a small pang of something akin to pain in his chest as he realizes that he might hurt his throat and not even enjoy the fruits of his labor, which, ironically, only makes him want to scream more.

_You call the tow truck. I'll slash the tires._

He doesn't wait for Numbers to answer him- he knows he's got the gist of the plan, or at least that he understands that Wrench just needs to slash a couple of tires right then and there.

By the time Wrench sits back in the couple of tires have turned into all four tires, two lights and a window: after all, if a job is worth doing it is worth doing well, and Numbers doesn't look bothered, though that might have something to do with him having already taken some Tramadol and looking well on his way to the land of dreams.

 _You're an idiot_. Numbers' eyes fall on Wrench as he signs, but there's no recognition in the look he's giving him. _You are an idiot,_ Wrench repeats, this time helpfully spelling 'idiot'.

_'I'm not the one who tore our car to pieces to get a lift.'_

_Don't be such a drama queen. Solverson was hacked to pieces. Our car is just damaged, like the ax we used for Solverson._

It takes a couple of seconds but eventually Numbers' lips twitch in a half-smile, in his eyes a brief sparkle of amusement before they glaze over.

_Couldn't you say you were injured?_

His shoulders shake, or perhaps he's just shrugged: Wrench cannot tell. Numbers' eyes are more and more unfocused as times goes by and it's like the target, their last target, and the way he would just stare at one spot, not seeing what was really there and yet still intently watching something.  
He sees the target die, and Numbers' face covered in blood, and hands are signing 'love' and it makes him sick.  
And it makes his hand tingle, even though he's not slammed it against anything, and he's already started with the 'I' before he realizes that he's going to confess his love again.  
And it's okay.  
It feels right to tell him, even if he won't understand. There's nothing else he can do right now, nothing that would really change the situation, and if he has to do something that doesn't matter then he doesn't see why it can't be that.

_I love you._

Numbers laughs when he looks at Wrench's right hand, or maybe chuckles, or giggles- Wrench doesn't know the difference. He can feel it, sometimes, when Numbers is standing close enough to him that his shoulders touch his own: it makes sense then, when he can feel it resonate in his chest. Any other time it's just a smile, big and beaming and so ridiculously full of life that seeing it makes him almost – almost – makes him want to speak.

Numbers' eyes close as he says something, slurring heavily, enough for Wrench to not be able to read it. _What?_

Wrench shakes Numbers' shoulder, feeling his fingers dig into the flesh. _What?_

Numbers turns his face to the seat, his lips moving but forming nothing of sense.


End file.
